After the SemiFinals
by Yiramy
Summary: Belgium and Netherlands aren't really pleased with the results of the Eurovision semi-finals. Neither is Norway. One-shot.


"It's that time of the year, isn't it," he sighed when he saw them walking up to his house. Of course he had followed the happenings of the second semi-final yesterday and although he was pleasantly surprised by the average good quality of the songs, he still wondered how some songs managed to get through. He walked up to the door to open it for them. With one glance he realised they had it rough this time. It was understandable, really. Belgium always sent in amazing unique songs and even his brother had a nice entry, in comparison to other years.

"Come in. I guess we'll skip the coffee and get straight to the alcohol?"

He only got a nod from his sister. His brother didn't even react. When they got all seated in the backyard, accompanied with Belgian beers and French wine, the youngest of the three sighed and looked at them. "Well, how did it go?"

"Boy cot," was his brother's response.

"You say that every year, yet your people still want to participate in the madness," Luxembourg said, pouring some wine for himself.

"It's a political game.. the former Soviet union has each other.. former Yugoslavia has each other.. even the Nordics have each other.. and what are we? That tiny little part of Western Europe who doesn't automatically qualify for the finals. It's unfair."

Luxembourg decided to ignore his rant. "It's why I stopped participating."

"Because you ran out of people?"

The Netherlands received a prod from his sister because of that. "Don't treat him like that, Willem. He can't help it he's that small."

"That's right. After all you were the one who stole about fifty percent of my lands, Elise," Luxembourg answered calmly. Elise got red but said nothing.

"So what was it this time? Bad performance, bad singers, bad looks maybe?" Luxembourg smiled teasingly. It was nice not to be the mocked one for once. "I told you Willem, you should have kept the barrel organ. Maybe add some fire breathers next year. Or maybe you should wear those funny orange inflatable hats you always have on queensday. Complete with an "I love Netherlands" song, like Belarus did. I am fairly sure you'll win that wa - "

"Luxembourg," their sister warned him. "That's enough."

She was right; the Netherland's expression went from a frown to a deep glare and she was afraid he would throw a fit if their younger brother went on like that. He sighed once again and looked at them, smiling a bit. "Sorry. I honestly believe you both should have advanced to the finals this time."

"But it didn't happen, did it," the Netherlands grunted. "Instead we have Moldavian dwarfs, hyper-as-fuck Irish twins, mister Popular and more crap."

"I liked Denmark's entry - " his sister began.

"I don't care about Denmark's entry."

Luxembourg decided it was time to give them a second beer - they had finished in it no time, the poor souls - and looked at his brother. "You do realise it isn't really about the songs anymore?"

"'Course I do."

"Then don't sulk. The few who know to appreciate music do know your entry this year was a good one. Real music. Europe just wasn't ready for it. And Elise - " he gave her an apologetic smile, " - I don't think everyone in Europe is really fond of jazz." But he meant what he said. He liked both entries and had hoped they would both advance. Partly because it was a good song.. and partly because of this. He always was the victim of them being sore losers. Especially their brother was good in ranting weeks about it.

"I'm officially the only country who never got through since we have those semi-finals," the Netherlands muttered.

Belgium whacked him over his head. "And you won four times in history, that's not what many can say."

"I won five times," Luxembourg said grinningly, before realising this probably wasn't exactly the right moment to share that fact.

"Michèl, you idiot," his sister scolded him. "Don't give him more reasons to be all miserable."

He shrugged and finished his third glass of wine. It was one of those times to get horribly drunk. The Benelux were sometimes all on their own in the big play place of Europe, but they at least had each other.

_Meanwhile, in Scandinavia_

"Fucking mister Popular."

He had hoped he wouldn't be alone in the loser's corner. "I'm a failure," he muttered, reaching for his sixth aquavit.

This was going to be a long weekend.


End file.
